


Drink Your Milkshake

by x_los



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (1963)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-14
Updated: 2008-06-14
Packaged: 2017-11-17 12:09:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/551386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/x_los/pseuds/x_los
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>FLUFF. UNHOLY LEVELS OF FLUFF. In which being mortal enemies now doesn't necessarily mean you can't call it off for holidays.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drink Your Milkshake

Title: Drink Your Milkshake  
Author: [](http://x-los.livejournal.com/profile)[**x_los**](http://x-los.livejournal.com/)  
Rating: G  
Pairing: Three/Delgado!Master  
Summary: FLUFF. UNHOLY LEVELS OF FLUFF. In which being mortal enemies now doesn't necessarily mean you can't call it off for holidays.  
Beta: [](http://bagheera-san.livejournal.com/profile)[**bagheera_san**](http://bagheera-san.livejournal.com/) , whose milkshake brings all the prospective beta-ees to the yard.  
A/N: edited request for [](http://best-enemies.livejournal.com/profile)[**best_enemies**](http://best-enemies.livejournal.com/) [Anon Meme](http://community.livejournal.com/best_enemies/13938.html): if you'd like, here's the [original version.](http://community.livejournal.com/best_enemies/13938.html?thread=264050#t264050)

 

 

 

Being mortal enemies now didn’t _necessarily_ mean you couldn’t call it off to celebrate holidays, did it?

The Doctor told himself that getting thoroughly annoyed over a childish invasion attempt was no reason to completely abandon his social calendar. He hadn’t been terribly surprised when the Master dropped by on his own last birthday. The other Time Lord had landed his own (working) TARDIS in the middle of the Doctor’s lab with an expectant look. Something in his expression implied that the Doctor would be churlish to refuse just a quick trip. It managed to wordlessly assure him that he would be a poor excuse for an old friend if he didn’t have a decent suggestion for how to spend the evening.

Gallifreyans didn’t really _do_ birthdays as a rule, but they had always disdained rules. The Doctor, caught unprepared, came up with ‘crossing the pond and jumping a few decades to watch _There Will Be Blood_ and go out for milkshakes.’ The Doctor was gratified but again, not even a little shocked that, when the Master had exhausted himself mocking the limitations of two-dimensional human entertainments, he grudgingly admitted that he’d enjoyed the film and thought the addition of the food component witty, “if a trifle sock-hop for my taste.”

The Doctor knew the Master protested too much, but didn’t call him on it—it _was_ his birthday, after all. The Master usually had a ridiculous sweet tooth, and this body proved no exception—he attacked the bottom of the glass with a straw and fierce determination the moment he thought the Doctor was distracted. The Doctor observed the Master's battle with the last of the mint chocolate malt discretely via watching him in the mirrored surface of the diner’s wall.

After he’d subdued the final drop of his malt, the Master eyed the remains of Doctor’s cherry vanilla milkshake, twirling his straw between his thumb and forefinger with a speculative look. In the end he won out against his baser instincts, restraining himself admirably. It was awfully… it was awfully something. The Doctor didn’t have a word he could call it without making a pleasant, friendly interval something rather awkward.

Of course three hours was hardly making a proper _evening_ of it, and they’d not even gotten off Earth yet. The Master not-that-casually mentioned spectacular gardens a few systems away, expressed possibly feigned surprise the Doctor had never been, and suggested that they go right now. The Doctor was quiet about his feverish gratitude at getting off-planet. The gardens were just as astounding as the Master had implied; they reminded the Doctor a little of those in a city he particularly liked, just a few more planets away (they were already _out_ , why not go for a full day?). The Master, dutifully making all the appropriate intrigued expressions, took them.

He dropped the Doctor back off when he started to fidget a bit and it became clear that an hour longer would mean something different than a simple, gentlemanly birthday armistice between mortal enemies. They bantered their way through a goodbye to avoid anything else they might’ve said or done.

On his own birthday the Doctor waited around, edgy, drumming his fingers on the lab table anxiously. He’d cleared Jo out of the lab a bit early, just in case the Master was unwise in his timing, and batted off the Brigadier, who wanted to discuss his latest leads in their ongoing effort to track down the Master, with a wild excuse about highly contagious Venusian bird flu.

By eight he was thoroughly irritated, convinced the Master wasn’t coming and that he was making an ass of himself puttering about the lab pretending to experiment on what he damn well knew was essentially alien pocket lint. As he was slamming the door to his own TARDIS, preparing to go read a book or do any activity that wasn’t possibly humiliating, he heard the familiar sound of another materialization.

From behind the almost-closed door of his TARDIS, he silently watched the Master step out with a bound. The Master looked around and tried calling his name a few times. The Doctor, wanting a bit of his own back for having waited all afternoon, kept quiet and let the Master dangle a bit. Thinking he was alone, the Master’s face assumed a disappointed expression when the Doctor didn’t answer. The Master seemed nearly hurt for an instant, and then his face tightened into annoyance. He turned around and wrenched the door to his own TARDIS open with unnecessary force. Before he could go the Doctor flung himself out with an apology—said he’d been grabbing a bit of equipment from one of the back storerooms, and how was the Master, then?

“Excellent, if a trifle later than I intended,” the Master admitted.

“What,” the Doctor quirked an eyebrow and teased, admitting to himself he’d been awfully petty a minute ago, “Your command over your TARDIS lacks pin-point accuracy, just like anyone else’s does? Oh _surely_ not.”

“Doctor, if you were trying to land here and now you’d have wound up in the Boxer rebellion or some nonsense,” the Master defended himself.

“Except for the peasant unrest I wouldn’t have minded,” the Doctor rebutted stoutly. “Relations between the People’s Republic and Britain being what they are just now, I haven’t so much as seen China at a distance the whole of the time I’ve been stuck here. You know, I think it’s been centuries since I’ve been? It’s terribly frustrating to be so close to something you’d very much like to do and yet to be utterly unable to act on that desire.”

“Is it?” The Master smiled, fond, and gestured to his ship, “Well then. China, for a start.”

The Doctor wouldn’t necessarily have admitted to wanting to impress him, but he skipped Beijing and Hong Kong and requested that they visit Guilin in the late 19th century, preferably when there wasn’t an opium conflict on. He felt smug when the Master started, just slightly, upon opening to door to a long, absolutely perfect view of karst peaks on the Yulong river.

The Master hopped out and turned back to his companion with a bright look, waiting for him. “Where first then, Doctor?”

They took a bamboo raft to reach Reed Flute cave. It wasn’t prepared and lit as a show cave yet, but the Master had a case of phosphorescent exploration powder on him. The Doctor wondered if the powder would contaminate the time period, or at very least the water supply, but the Master explained to him the mechanism by which it would decay organically within a few hours.

The Doctor carefully stood on the bow of the raft and threw up a vast handful of the dust. It flew out to coat the roof of the cave, self-propelled upwards like whirlybird seeds. The dust spun as it drifted down with aching slowness, just as it was designed to, giving the impression of stars illuminating the cave’s vast, breathtaking interior. Grinning, the Doctor turned back to observe the Master’s duly appreciative reaction. He was more than a little impressed with the Master at the moment.

Coming back, they observed the late, sumptuous sunset of a sub-tropical summer day. Piloting the raft had made them hungry. Returning to the city, they ate soft rice noodles at a cook-shop with a good view of the tall pagodas. They declared rice baijiu an indifferent drink, though that didn’t stop them from having several glasses, just to assure themselves they were correct in their assessment. It had been early morning when they’d arrived, and it was dark now.

They’d finished their meals and stayed talking, drinking and occasionally getting another zongzi to split until the landlady would have gladly chased them out, except that they were white foreigners and bound to overpay. It had been much longer than either of them realized. With an uncomfortable start, the Doctor grasped that they were again approaching that indecorous hour.

“I should—” the Doctor started.

“Of course,” the Master interrupted him smoothly, and (over) paid for them both.

Back in the Doctor’s lab, they stood a little awkwardly.

“Happy birthday,” the Master offered, and the Doctor nodded.

“Thank you,” the Doctor smiled lightly, “that was,” he coughed, “very pleasant indeed. And very good of you to come.”

“Oh, think nothing of it.” The Master waved his hand absently. The Doctor rubbed the back of his neck, feeling tense. He felt like they were waiting for some signal—he didn’t fully comprehend what. The Master ran his tongue absently over his dry lips, gathering himself.

After a handful of instants spent darting looks at each other and glancing away, the Master leaned in, just a fraction. His eyes were hooded, his lips ever-so-slightly parted. He brought his face close, almost touching the Doctor’s. The Doctor, startled, leaned back in confusion. Was _that_ what they were—oh. Oh Rassilon. They were dating. Dammit, they were _dating_ , why had he not—

The Master, rejected, bit the inside of his cheek and looked down at the floor. His mouth moved like he was about to say something, but instead he abruptly turned and walked into his TARDIS, shutting the door very quietly.

“Wait!” The Doctor snapped back to himself and advanced towards the TARDIS, hoping the Master could still hear him, “Just wait a minute, I didn’t—”

The sound of dematerialization drowned out the rest of the sentence.

The Doctor ran a hand through his hair and sighed. Their next meeting was almost certain to be too adversarial for him to say anything about, well, _this_. Or, proud as the Master was, to simply let him _explain_. And it wasn’t as if he was necessarily opposed to a development of that nature… quite the contrary, now that he realized what was going on. Not that it mattered, he thought sourly, giving the wooden base of his lab table a spiteful kick, wincing when that hurt him worse than it did the sturdy equipment. The Master wasn’t likely to come back for any more birthdays.


End file.
